


Crown of Ashes, Cloak of Smoke

by Spoopy_Moose



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Corruption arc pog, Evil Wilbur Soot, Gen, God Complex, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Prose Poem, Purple Prose, Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot-centric, he has always had a god complex you fools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26948494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoopy_Moose/pseuds/Spoopy_Moose
Summary: Oh.Oh.The epiphany, the realization had hit all at once not unlike a punch to the gut, knocking all the air and all the self-reassurance and all of his moral superiority out of him. The house of cards was crumbling alongside him, on top of him and beneath him, for a second, he was in freefall, his stomach drops and a wave of cold sweat covers him.A crown of wrought iron, of beaten copper and bitter sliver makes its descent from a tower.And he follows.Or, Wilbur comes to a conclusion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	Crown of Ashes, Cloak of Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first fanfiction in two and a half years that I have finished.  
> It really is less of a fic and more of a character study ramble, just in my head, Wilbur was always a kind of a malevolent being to me, never really on the good side, never really a hero but always someone wanting to cause chaos wherever he went.  
> Sorry if this doesn't make much sense, it really is a bunch of rambles I kind of stitched together and made into whatever this is. Again, please separate the character from the person, irl Wilbur is a sweetheart and I would die for him, in-game Wilbur is a bitch with a god complex given an audience, please do not confuse the two.

The man in the tower wore a crown of wrought iron, of beaten copper and bitter sliver, a crown that rode the waves of his brown curls, once soft and luscious, now hanging down in brittle strands, sticky with mud and sweat and blood which belonged to no one.

He had remembered his honeyed words, which had tumbled out of his throat in a low and soothing tone, which had been so sweet, so enticing that even he had drunk the nectar willingly, taking in royal blue freedom and the crimson red independence and the pure white heroism _._

_The wind blew in his hair, his back straightened in his uniform as he read from the leather-bound book in his hands._

_“from the hot dog van, we shall prevail_

_Life, liberty and the pursuit of victory”_

_A surge of pride rushed to his heart as his men looked on with adoring eyes, eyes which trusted him with their lives, eyes which willingly handed over their innocence to a cause he told them was just._

_~~And a pair of eyes hidden behind shades, eyes which hid greed that matched with his, eyes which spoke of treachery, eyes which reflected a crown of shining gold and a castle sitting proudly on a hill.~~ _

A tale as old as time, a tale he has told countless times over campfires and homebrewed beers, a tale inscribed into the founding of their little patch of land that they called a nation, inscribed into the hearts and minds of every single one of them. The tale of the cruel ruler and the kind leader and the little soldiers with their youthful smiles, crushed, smashed, shattered into a thousand bits under the iron boots of the masked man.

L’manberg, a nation born out of tyranny, a nation born as a sanctuary, a shelter in the storm from which nursed freedom.

Then everything goes wrong on that day in which the sun beats down and the heat sears his eyes as he read out from the piece of damned paper which pulled the rug out from under his feet and sent him plunging. They ran into the woods together, chased by gleeful stares of a once-friend turned enemy. Yet the legacy remained, the story that he had so carefully fed them lingered even as he was banished.

~~L’~~ manberg, a nation stolen by a man with dark eyes and darker words, a nation taken by a tyrant who tore down its walls and buried its history.

_The wind blew in his hair as he lay crouched, hidden, ready to learn of the tyrannical plans that Schlatt had in store for his nation. Instead, the president had announced a party, a festival, he called it, to celebrate democracy and his time as the president…._

_Wilbur waited for the catch…_

_…but he only heard the wind…_

_…and the distant cheers of a content people_

Oh.

_Oh._

The epiphany, the realization had hit all at once not unlike a punch to the gut, knocking all the air and all the self-reassurance and all of his moral superiority out of him. The house of cards was crumbling alongside him, on top of him and beneath him, for a second, he was in freefall, his stomach drops and a wave of cold sweat covers him.

A crown of wrought iron, of beaten copper and bitter sliver makes its descent from a tower.

And he follows.

_“Are we the bad guys?”, he asked the child and the child stops, dead in his track, his face contorts and his brows furrowed._

_“No, I don’t think so,” there was an uncertainty to Tommy’s voice, a certain crack there that told Wilbur that like him, the child’s house of cards was crumbling as well, and that was when he knew._

The epiphany hit all at once, shattering his mask of benevolence, of being good and heroic and the underdogs which fought against cruelty. And when that was gone, there was nothing left but cruelty, there was nothing left but the ugly anger bubbling inside of him and out of him and around him. Until all he wanted to do was to hold this thing that he blew life into and blow it sky fucking high.

The man in the ravine laughs, a vicious, but victorious laughter, his face splits into a blooming, bloodied flower, revealing sharpened teeth dripping with honey and gore. He laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs, until his breaths come out ragged and his ribs ached, until there were tears streaming down his face and he doubles over from the pain.

For the first time in months, hell, for the first time in years he saw his reflection with crystal clear clarity. His skin paled and dirtied, his cheekbones stood in stark juxtaposition to his otherwise soft features, his hair, matted and oily, hanging down in strands where they were once lovingly nurtured curls.

And his eyes.

Oh his eyes.

His eyes which burnt with the fierceness of a thousand suns, burning down in a laser-sharp focus onto this little piece of land. Yet behind that wall of fire lies only the void, the coldness, the emptiness, the callousness of a god. A god who held no remorse and loved no one, who tread a thousand different worlds and destroyed every single one of them, a god who blew life into the stars before mercilessly crushing them into powder beneath his heels.

_Once, in faraway lands, he was a god built of fear and adoration._

_Hundreds of disciples trembled at the sight of him and yet they flocked to his sides at his command, hanging onto his every gospel. The god had found them funny little things, putting them in ridiculous situations, mockingly naming them his “pets”, snapping their meaningless lives in a heartbeat. He had felt truly alive then, feeling the rush of power as he realized that they would follow him to the ends of the earth, no matter the brutality._

_Mastery in sadism, doctorate in chaos._

_That was what he was good at._

The ending of the story went like this:

Laughter.

Then a deafening noise as the world was consumed in an inferno. 

And then silence, only broken by the crackling dance of the remaining flames.

Lastly, laughter again.

Wilbur Soot stood alone, ashes raining from the sky and the stench of gunpowder and blood filled the air. All around him are bodies, dead or dying, their faces marred, blasted to bits by the sheer amount of TNT he planted around what was once his. His boots ate up the scarred soil of the land, his clothes stained with a layer of soot (soot, he thought, a funny word, a fitting name for a god of nothing). Under the rubble, the child who was pulled into a warzone by his convincing smile and his sweet words clung desperately to life, they make eye contact as Wilbur walked by, smirking as the last bit of hope, and the last bit of life bled out of him.

A god ascends a stone tower on a day a country burnt, crowned in ashes, draped in smoke. A god rode the waves of joy that pulsated from the destruction, throwing his head back and laughed, truly laughed. A careless, joyous sound which rang out across the kingdom, harking the arrival of the angle of sweet words and bitter ends.

And when the last of flames are smothered, there still stood a man, not broken, but freed.


End file.
